


Beneath a Steeple

by harljordxn



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Gay Male Character, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, mlm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harljordxn/pseuds/harljordxn
Summary: In the chaotic landscape of Hell's Kitchen following Wilson Fisk's arrest, good versus evil scramble for power. But following an encounter with the Daredevil, Detective Killian Coughlan finds more than his idea of righteousness being questioned - he feels his heart being captured, too. [Matt Murdock x Male OC]





	1. Prologue

Hell’s Kitchen is burning.

The system is quaking as Wilson Fisk’s minions and spies are arrested and rounded up by the police and federal agents.   
Those who seemed beyond reproach - senators, lawyers - and those who simply blended in amongst everybody else - journalists, beat cops - were all treated with disdain as the connections in Fisk’s pocket, intricate and winding like a nervous system killing its own body, Hell’s Kitchen, fall apart. 

Captain Leroy Bolster stands on his precient’s front steps, the sharp November night numbing his hands and face but the anticipation and anxiety racing through his body battles against the cold. Three steps down from the captain stand two suited men, the FBI truck blocking the street as it waits for its cargo. They had arrived seconds following Officer Blake’s voice crackling over the radio, confirming he had recaptured Wilson Fisk. 

Leroy still felt a shadow in his heart, doubt plaguing him as they wait silently in the loud New York night for Fisk’s arrival. Of course, only being a captain, Leroy hadn’t been allowed see the exclusive information the feds had. But still taking their word as gospel is never how Bolster operated. 

Smoothly, the blue and white car glides to a stop. Barely in the dark, Leroy can see the shrouded round head of Wilson Fisk. The agents move quickly, steadily opening the car doors to promptly incarnate Fisk. Leroy examines the Kingpin - a nickname the press will dream up, he would bet - as he steps out.

His fat wrists are pressed tightly together with cuffs, with a stream of blood washing over his cheek from a split forehead. Although Fisk is imposing - Leroy is half his breath - Bolster is taller, and doesn’t experience the fear many understandably would being faced with such a notorious man. Nearly twenty-five years on the job, Bolster has learned through trial and error that more often than not, an iron fist conceals itself in a velvet glove. 

Blake jogs over to his commanding captain, the beat cop pushing back his cap - his forehead veiled with nervous sweat.   
“Where did you apprehend him?” Bolster asks, arms crossed confidently against his chest. Blake is silent for a moment, the flashing white, red and blue lights reflecting like a mirror in his eyes as Fisk steps into the van, in a daze. “And did you cause that?” 

“What? No,” Blake says quickly, palms extended as he shakes his head hurriedly. He’s a ball of jitters, Leroy can almost feel the shivers rocking through Blake. The officer is choked up, the truth difficult to force out of his mouth. “Found him downtown. But, sir...I didn’t catch him. Not really.”

Bolster’s fists tighten.   
“Excuse me?”

Blake gulps. People often did around Bolster. He has barely lifted a brow, but his subordinates hardly experienced his voice raising above a monotonous, level tempo. Whenever he went above that, it led to two reactions; a gulp, or a flinch. 

“It...it was the Devil, Bolster.” Blake murmurs, eyelids low as he turns his mouth from the agents’ earshot. “The devil of Hell’s Kitchen caught him.”

“You mean another criminal, a vigilante, beat Wilson Fisk half bloody and the actual law couldn’t?” Bolster says lowly, standing over Blake who stands his ground. Bolster is aware the devil has been cleared of the bombings and other acts of violence orchestrated by Fisk, but it didn’t matter to the cop. One of Leroy’s flaws - though he admits there’s many - is his strict black and white perception of right and wrong. 

To him, Fisk and the devil were one in the same. Both criminals, neither deserved to remain free. Bolster looks to the FBI agents, preparing to close up the van as the captain meets Wilson Fisk’s eye.

They’re strange eyes. Sad, drooping and plagued with inhibition, Bolster couldn’t imagine this man as a crime lord (though Bolster knows appearances can be deceiving) and had Fisk been stripped of his expensive, undoubtedly Italian suit, Bolster would have forgotten him almost instantly. 

But the devil? 

The devil of Hell’s Kitchen remains in Bolster’s mind as the doors slam, Fisk and Bolster breaking their examinings of one another, and now with Fisk rapidly disappearing from Bolster’s worries another foe takes his place.

“Get me anything on this devil shithead,” Bolster orders Blake, who’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Bolster feels rage breathe on his neck in a blast of hot, angry air. Bolster wouldn’t allow any man, not even one being proclaimed a hero, to be above the law. Just like Fisk, this daredevil had to be caught too.

The devil of Hell’s Kitchen isn’t immune to the law, and Bolster will see sure of it. 

As of tonight, the devil may be a hero in the minds of New York’s citizen.

But even the mighty fall.


	2. Chapter 1: Killian

Killian Coughlan is disconnected. 

To him, disconnectivity felt limp. There’s no definite beginning, no finite end to the sensation. It’s like drifting aimlessly, swaying uselessly in the breeze of life as everyone pushes past.  
Stranger still, Killian has never felt disconnected before. Throughout his entire childhood he had been so wrapped up, captured in the tide of growing and aging and experiencing things, to even stop and go inside his head. 

Aged twenty-seven, it now seems to Killian he’s permanently a prisoner in his own head. His head, a place sacred and exclusive to Killian only himself, is eating him alive from inside. It tears him up, dices his thoughts apart as Killian tries his hardest - his very best - to get away and live in the times.

Grand Central is tumultuous in the Monday morning rush hour with dozens of New Yorkers and tourists alike shoving against one another, like ants in a colony, to meet deadlines and timetables; in a city that never sleeps, it’s citizens and occupants can’t stop, either. 

The coffee kiosk Killian swims to is ran by a portly, middle-aged mother with strong hands and an even sterner expression. It cracks as he approaches, a smile blossoming through her strict exterior. He’s visited this place since he left the academy, and like anyone would, he enjoys the staff who know his face and name.  
“Detective Coughlan - the usual?” Maria calls to him, beverage cup in hand and pencil poised as Killian side-steps rambling tourists. He smiles in greeting, a gesture his mother had taught all her five kids; a smile, she would sing, can make anyone’s day. 

“You’re a psychic, Maria,” Killian says, already pulling out his wallet as she processes his order. The woman is far from a psychic. Killian didn’t always find the time to reach the kiosk before his shifts, his frequent visits coupled with a predictable streak gave the woman a tactical advantage. “Busy today?”

The barista laughs humorlessly, smiling in bemusement.  
“You’re funny, detective,” Maria snorts, presenting Killian with his caramel latte and a brown bag. He exchanges his bills for the beverage, scaldingly hot against his skin in the stale New York summer. “You busy too?”

“Nah,” Killian responds, with Maria already occupied serving another customer as their conversation toils along. “Which is odd, for a weekday.”

“Maybe it’s that daredevil guy,” Maria suggests with a simpering smile, her tired eyes on the work before her. 

“Maybe,” Killian hums noncommittally. “Or it could be the fine work of the NYPD, ma’am, what do you think of that?”

Maria now hums, her interest lost in Killian as the queue grows beside the detective. At this moment, as usual, their idle talk breaks down and Killian departs from his relaxed position; back to the toil until Killian notices the hands of his watch, cursing lightly as he cuts through the crowd and escapes through an exit. 

“Finally,” Killian is greeted with, “I thought you’d ran away to join the circus.”

Killian’s partner, Julian Rodriguez, is leaning against their car as he leaves the station. Julian’s brows are furrowed as he squints in the glaring sun’s rays.  
Though eleven years Killian’s senior at thirty-eight, Rodriguez finds himself at no disadvantage with the lothario sporting an easy, lopsided grin and charming attitude on a regular basis.  
Killian can easily empathise with the women who fall for the Don Juan’s charms, making Julian to be a serial romancer every day of the week. 

Currently, however, Julian is in no flirtatious mood as his eyes stare at Killian unhappily. Julian’s aura of displeasure only increased by his mouth being twisted into a grimace as Killian approaches with a sheepish expression - like a child, preparing for a scolding. 

“Can we go? Before Bolster decides to chew us out in front of the entire bullpen?” Julian continues impatiently and Killian mumbles an apology as they jump into their car. 

“I guess Bolster has been on a bit of a rampage since that devil guy brought in Fisk, huh?” Killian says between sips and Julian scoffs loudly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel before cocking his head back. Julian is animated despite the early morning commute, and Killian feels a little irritated by being near his intrusive gestures. 

“Rampage? Rampage!? More like the warpath straight through our asses for chrissake,” Julian replies, sunglasses reflecting the traffic blocking their path. “He nearly slapped Shackleton’s head off for being a minute late, and woulda had Conrad not stepped in.”

Killian’s hand tightens on his cup.

‘Please…’

“So...what’s Maggie Conrad like on a date?”

‘...Goddammit.’

Killian can feel Julian’s eyes examining the sides of his face, like the sun’s radiation scarring his skin. His mind can barely focus on what did happen during the date, but rather tries to decide on how best to approach this conversation. He can deny and deny, until eventually Julian grows agitated by lack of details and out of boredom drops it, or Killian can attempt to phrase how he feels about Maggie.  
“She was...nice,” Killian finally says, Julian making a noise of contempt beside him.

“Nice? Visitin’ your grandma is nice, Coughlan. Not a date with the lovely Margaret Conrad, OK? Now tell me the truth,” Julian shakes his head, Killian turning to the window as they round a corner. Killian dislikes these conversations - about his love life. He feels like a teenager again, his brothers discussing the girls they liked or dated and Killian inventing a crush to appease their questioning minds. It never lasts for long, and within days the same curious minds have returned to plague him. 

“I don’t know. She was nice. Sweet, even. But I just don’t think it’ll go anywhere,” Killian mumbles his generic excuse, stomach twisting in tight knots as he experiences a sinking sensation - like weights were being tied around his ankles, Julian’s inquiries each add another boulder to the anchor dragging Killian down. 

The precinct appears suddenly on the left, Julian moving to park as Killian heads inside. He feels briefly victorious at escaping another trial with Julian over his lacking romances, until Killian is thrust into the bustling bullpen.  
Alive with moving bodies, his long legs are ill-matched against narrow spaces as he shuffles between people toward his desk. Like waiting on the subway, Killian sighs in annoyance as he’s left to wait for a uni to pass with a bundle of casefiles and evidence. ‘Come on,’ Killian internally urges the officer forward. ‘Get me outta here!’ 

“Kil, where’ve you been?”

Killian grunts, stepping aside as she follows him. Separated by a desk, Maggie Conrad stands beside him. Maggie is half his height, but she’s far from bothered as her round, tenacious eyes remain fixed on his face. 

“Bolster has been looking for you and Julian,” Conrad tells him, rosy lips spread into a decorous smile as Killian nods tightly and diverts her to the brown bag he carries. He’s extending an olive branch - almost an apology - as Maggie opens it to see her favourite; a purple donut, covered in white sprinkles. 

“Aw, Kil!” Conrad proclaims, leaning across and squeezing his bicep in gratitude. “This is so sweet. Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing. It’s...what friends are for,” Killian says, but Maggie is already heading toward her lunch break and cradling the bag like a precious gift. 

Killian can feel Julian’s smirk radiating from behind him, and quickly moves away from Rodriguez toward the captain’s office - losing his partner temporarily in the crowd.

Captain Leroy Bolster is aware he’s intimidating, and takes great pleasure in it.

Standing at nearly six feet five, Bolster could have had a very successful career in sport had he not found his true calling in a shield and uniform. This aside, Bolster’s most overawing trait is his innate ability to cut a person to the bone without even lifting a brow or misplacing a single hair. 

Killian had seen him do it frequently to Julian.

“Finally. Took an extra long commute, officers?” Bolster greets, dropping the file he had been examining as he pockets his glasses in a single fluid motion. His face is totally neutral as the two beat cops sink into the chairs opposite his faux mahogany desk. 

Julian shakes off the comment as Bolster shakes his head in disapproval - reaching to lift a folder from his inbox. Bolster’s traditional wedding band, gold and thick in width, flashes in the artificial overhead lighting. Killian’s mind wanders at the sight, thinking to himself ‘who’s Mrs Leroy Bolster?’ The captain has no photos or personal belongings in his office, the room instead remaining as pristine and impersonal as the day he entered it. Killian doubts he’d ever know.

“Is that understood?” Bolster asks, his eyes moving steadily between both men before him as Killian, snapped from his daydream, realises he’s missed the entire point of the meeting, but quickly follows Julian’s lead and confirms his understanding with a curt nod. “Dismissed.”

Julian stands, holding the manilla file in his hand as they move away from Bolster’s earshot wordlessly. 

“What the hell was that, Coughlan?” Julian rounds on Killian, who tries to re-centre his mind while shuffling through the busy bullpen. “You just totally spaced out in the middle of that and left me to deal with Bolster alone. What the fuck is on your mind?”

“The captain’s wife,” Killian blurts out, but Jules is staring at his partner; attempting to decipher the puzzle, and determine if Killian is insane, or just plain stupid.

“Wha- you know what, I don’t care; it doesn’t matter,” Julian says querulously, Killian’s brows drawing together as Rodriguez huffs. “Just go get ready.”

“What are we doing?” Killian asks.

Julian groans and turns sharply to his friend. His eyes look over Killian’s face, before slowly dropping his hostile stance.

“We’re catching the devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”


End file.
